Page 24 of The Slug Crystal
I scroll through the playlist and queue up “Kashmir.” The snail, no joke, pauses dead in the middle of the log.
Ben leans forward, all mock-reverence. “He knows.”
“He knows,” Jake agrees.
We play a few more songs, singing along as a trio. For “He Is,” Jake goes full falsetto, cracking only once, and Ben follows along with handclaps and headbanging. Somewhere in the middle of singing, I forget about the snail, about Sarah DeMarco, about the looming horror of possibly reversing a hex and having to face my ex again. For a minute, it’s just us, and the beat, and the sun slicing through the bug-splattered windshield.
We’re still singing when we roll into the next stop. Ben’s hair is a mess, Jake’s voice is gone, and I’m grinning so wide my face hurts. For a minute, we’re not just three people stuck in a truck on a stupid magic errand. We’re a band. Or at least, three idiots who should not be allowed near a microphone due to our new, false confidence. As Jake places the car in park, I glance back to catch Ben writing Best Road Trip Ever in big block letters at the top of a page in his notebook and underline it three times.
I don’t even roll my eyes. Not even a little.
Instead, I grin to myself and climb out of the car with my terrarium in tow. I catch our reflection in the windows as we get out. We look, god help me, happy. Like we’re starring in an ad for an off-brand energy drink or one of those found family streaming shows.
Ben notices me looking at our reflections. He stops, stares at the glass, and says, “You know, we could go pro. We look good as a band.”
Jake replies, voice ragged, “Maybe we can discuss it after this is all over.”
Ben ignores him and says, “I call lead singer.”
I roll my eyes. “Of course you do.” But I don’t argue.
The rest stop is a sun-bleached patch of parking lot ringed with picnic tables and guarded by a vending machine that looks older than Jake. There’s a playground off to one side, deserted except for a single, brave toddler in a Paw Patrol shirt. Nearby there’s a row of battered dumpsters radiating heat and ancient sandwich funk. On the other side there’s a short, squat building, separated into men’s and women’s bathroom facilities.
I’m halfway through reading the nutritional panel of a vending machine protein bar, searching for validation that it’s actual food when Jake says, “I need to piss before we hit the next stretch. You want to come, or…?”
I shake my head, my mouth full of the first bite, which tastes delicious, even if the ingredients are all words I’ve never heard of. “I’ll stay and go after you. Someone needs to guard the snail from Ben’s evil influence.”
Ben, who is balancing the terrarium on one knee and attempting to teach Alex how to fist-bump through the glass, I decide not to ask why, fakes a look of betrayal. “You wound me, Emma.”
I snort, licking fake-chocolate residue from my fingers. “I just don’t fully trust you not to sell him to a passing trucker.” I turn my gaze to Jake. “I can wait. Can you be quick this time though? I don’t want another incident where we’re here for thirty minutes because you have public restroom anxiety.”
Jake flips me off good-naturedly and heads for the bathroom. I flop onto the picnic bench next to Ben, who’s doing that thing where he narrates the snail’s internal monologue in a cartoon voice.
I tune him out because he’s obviously insane, and I don’t need that kind of influence in my life.
Two minutes later, I finish my protein bar. I sit on the hardbench and cross and uncross my legs, the need to pee slowly, but urgently getting to me. Eyeing the restrooms, I wonder what the heck is taking Jake so long. I swear that man must spend half his life on the toilet.
Sighing, I stand up and jiggle a little, trying to distract myself.
Ben finally looks up from the terrarium and shoots me a look. “You can trust me with your snail long enough to go to the bathroom. I promise I won’t unload him onto some random passerby. Scout’s Honor,” he says, holding up a weird finger salute.
“You were a Scout?” I ask, more interested in that than anything else he said.
He barks out a laugh. “Yes, for several years. Now, please go to the bathroom. You’re giving me anxiety with all your twitching. If you pee on yourself in front of me, I will never forgive you.”
I laugh, and for a weird moment, I forget that we’re on a rescue mission for my ex-boyfriend-slash-snail and that Ben is a stranger that I barely know. “Okay,” I say, pivoting on my heel towards the bathroom. “Do not let him escape.”
Ben raises a hand in mock salute again. “Scout’s honor.”
I head inside the rest stop building, which is at least ten degrees cooler, a surprising contrast. I move to the women’s side of the restroom and handle my business. Then, I do a quick check of my phone. There are still no emails from Sarah DeMarco, but at least Alina has texted six new memes and a photo of her dog wearing a hat. I laugh react to the photo and send her a quick update.
I spend maybe two minutes max in the bathroom. I know Jake and Ben can survive without me, so I don’t rush. But when I exit, Jake’s leaning against the building, arms crossed, looking unimpressed.
“Where’s Ben?” he asks.
I freeze. “He was at the table when I left.”
Jake doesn’t move. “And the snail?”
